


When We're Not Pretending

by kutubiyya



Series: Distractions and Complications [1]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguments, Dramatic Irony, Fluff, Gyms, Infidelity, M/M, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-10 15:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6990973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kutubiyya/pseuds/kutubiyya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a knock at the door and they both, simultaneously, swear, then laugh.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Ignore it?” says Jimmy, although he already knows what the answer will be.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Ali sighs. “Can’t.” He plants a quick peck on Jimmy’s forehead. “Captaining to do.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>With that, Ali’s dragging his shirt back on and heading for the door, while Jimmy sets about making himself look less at home on Ali’s bed.</i>
</p><p>--</p><p>Victory in the Test series against India might have saved Alastair's captaincy in the red-ball game, but the ODI series against the same opposition is a whole new challenge - especially when an old friend can't resist sticking his oar in. With the pressures of the past few months coming back in force, Alastair might have reason to wish that things with Jimmy really <i>were</i> simple. (Bristol, 24th-25th August, 2014.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic follows on from my previous series, ['An Indian Summer'](http://archiveofourown.org/series/195023), although I think you can probably get the gist of what's happening without needing to read that. Maybe?
> 
> Short version: [Alastair](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/139904013792) and [Jimmy](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2014/04/25/article-2613032-1D56907400000578-419_634x422.jpg) are teammates, and in fic!land, they've been having [an affair](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/135844075917/alastair-is-perfect-cuddly-puppies) for about two months, during the summer of 2014. Their best friend, who retired from cricket at the end of 2013 and became a commentator, is Swanny ([pictured here groping Cooky's arse](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/133420642812/alastair-is-perfect-swannys-hand-on-alis), because why wouldn't you). Jimmy is definitely in no way jealous of [captain-in-waiting and massive Cooky fan, Joe](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/144510565362/caption-competition-anyone-eng-v-sl-nets), and how close he is to Alastair.
> 
> ([There's a bit more about my fics here.](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/145051298452/can-we-begin-at-the-end-to-save-some-time-faith))

_I wonder what you look like_  
_Under your t-shirt_  
_I wonder what you sound like_  
_When you’re not wearing words_  
_I wonder what we have_  
_When we’re not pretending_  
_It’s never ending, haven’t you heard?_

\--Ani DiFranco, 'Work Your Way Out'  
([listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hB7FNtnL6m8); [lyrics](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/anidifranco/workyourwayout.html))

 

\--

_Here we are_ , Jimmy thinks.

He’s lying on Ali’s hotel bed, in Bristol: eyes closed, earbuds in, music on. The firm mattress at his back is cushioned, somewhat, by the pristine sheets that have replaced the ones they slept in, last night. (He’s grateful for this, after a tough final training session before the first ODI.) He’s got his mp3 player perched on his chest, warm even through the cotton of his t-shirt, and his legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles. The jeans he’s wearing are new, and expensive (he doubts the other man has noticed either of these things, but that’s okay); the denim is unforgiving as yet, unused to his body and almost as stiff as the starched white sheets beneath him. But he likes the cut, they look good on him, and he already knows they will be a favourite pair once he’s worn them in.

His left hand rests near the bottom of his ribcage, and he can feel the outline of the bone there; for all his efforts to build up more muscle, what Swanny once called Jimmy’s _wiry horrible model’s body_ remains fundamentally lean. (He reconciled himself to that a long time ago; has focused, since, on skill rather than power.) His right arm is stretched off to the side – it’s settled across the warm, smooth back of his captain. Jimmy's hand is tucked inside the other man’s tatty, faded polo shirt, where it’s lazily tapping out the rhythms of his old faithful nineties indie playlist.

Ali, for his part, is lying on his belly, gaze glued to Jimmy’s laptop, as he has been since Jimmy strolled down the corridor to show him an email he’d just got from Swanny, newly back in the country. The message read, simply, _Joe_ , followed by a link to what proved to be a two-minute youtube video of a very small puppy chasing a ping-pong ball round and round and round an empty bathtub. And, yes, okay, Jimmy could have just forwarded it on, but Ali doesn’t exactly check his email regularly and Jimmy kind of wanted to see the reaction in person. It didn’t disappoint; even on the third watch, Ali was still laughing merrily.

(And, okay, that wasn’t quite the sum total of the email, either; it also contained _ps give your boyfriend a cuddle from me_ , but Jimmy didn’t scroll down to that bit in front of Ali, because it’s high time Swanny stopped interfering.)

Next thing Jimmy knew, half a dozen clicks and some sort of unerring farmer instinct led Ali to unearth a documentary about cows. _I just want to watch the start_ , Ali said, _just to see if it’s any good_ , but once he got going – chin cradled in both hands, fascination lighting up his face – Jimmy couldn’t bring himself to interrupt. He’s not sure he would’ve been _able_ to interrupt. So instead he got his mp3 player out of his pocket, lay back, and let himself drift.

At some point – when Jimmy's lazy tapping has become even lazier stroking, and he’s on the verge of not just drifting, but drifting _off_ – Ali shifts, and Jimmy raises his head, thinking that maybe the programme’s over. But no: the other man’s just pulling his shirt over his head, shuffling closer, and lying back down on his belly, all without once looking away from the screen. After a moment, he reaches round to lift Jimmy’s unprotesting hand onto his back again.

Jimmy gets the message, huffs a silent laugh, and resumes stroking.

Apparently he does doze off, though, because when he next opens his eyes, Ali’s sitting up, and the lid of the laptop is closed.

Jimmy pulls his earbuds out, basking in the warmth of Ali’s smile. (And the different sort of warmth prompted by the pleasingly thorough stretch Ali's indulging in.) “I take it it was good, then?” he says, drily.

“It _was_! It was about the psychology of cows, like, how to make them calmer, and, yeah, some of it’s common knowledge, but…” Ali’s smile turns rueful, and he leans down. “Sorry. Know you don’t care.”

And this isn’t true, not completely – part of Jimmy wants to listen, albeit mostly to Ali’s enthusiasm – but it’s too late to protest: Ali’s lips are already pressed against his own. (And, really, it’s Ali’s other life, isn’t it? The one that belongs to his family, the one Jimmy needs to stay out of, for both of their sakes.) So Jimmy relaxes into the kiss, instead, into the rasp of stubble against stubble and the softness of lips, into the familiar weight of the other man and the feel of bare skin under his hands.

Until there’s a knock at the door and they both, simultaneously, swear, then laugh.

“Ignore it?” says Jimmy, although he already knows what the answer will be.

Ali sighs. “Can’t.” He plants a quick peck on Jimmy’s forehead. “Captaining to do.”

With that, Ali’s dragging his shirt back on and heading for the door, while Jimmy sets about making himself look less at home on Ali’s bed.

\--

Later that night, Ali’s on something like his eighth yawn – a proper cavernous one, too, not some stifled sigh – when the penny _finally_ drops.

“Okay,” says Joe, stretching out legs that have been tucked underneath him for the past three hours. “Let’s call it a night. You look knackered, skip.”

( _What gave it away?_ thinks Jimmy, sourly.)

Ali stirs, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “Nah, I’m fine,” he says, stubbornly polite to the last, even though the fatigue is clear in his voice.

Jimmy, who’s sitting beside him, treats the man to one of his finer sceptical looks. It’s wasted, of course. Ali’s oblivious to sense when he’s strategizing, and he and Joe have been talking nineteen-to-the-dozen about the ODI series ever since dinner. Jimmy and Jos, having both tried (and failed) to get a word in edgeways, have had to content themselves with exchanging grins whenever the other two got carried away. Which was frequently.

Joe’s smiling, shaking his head. “’S all right. Been a good chat.” He braces his hands against the patterned carpet, and pushes himself to his feet. Beside him, Jos gets up, too, then bends down again to gather the cushions they’ve been sitting on; starts chucking them back over to the bed. “About time Jos was getting his beauty sleep, anyway.”

That gets Joe a swift cushion to the face. Jimmy hides a smile behind his can of Coke. Jos definitely has a wicketkeeper’s reflexes, these days.

Joe rubs his eyes, gives Jos a rueful smile. “You coming, Jimmy?”

Jimmy lifts his can. “Just finishing my drink.”

Ali stands to accept the inevitable Yorkie hug. (Jimmy stays where he is, raises a hand in farewell.)

Joe’s got the door halfway open when he stops, turns back, and says, rapidly, “So one more thing about Kohli, right—”

“It can _wait_.” Jos, smirking, takes hold of Joe’s shoulders, and physically steers him out into the corridor. “Night,” he calls, as the door swings shut behind him.

The click of the closing door is like a trigger. Ali’s whole posture changes, immediately: hands slipping from his hips, shoulders slumping, head drooping. He flops back onto the sofa with a sigh, eyes closed.

Jimmy puts aside the can he's barely touched - he only really took it to give himself something to do with his hands - and watches the other man, quietly.

He must have known. What this job takes out of Ali. They’ve been friends for eight years; he must have seen the signs, how things changed, after Ali got the captaincy. The extra strain around his dark eyes; that little bit more distance he puts between himself and the others. Ali’s not exactly a closed book, even now, but there’s a layer of reticence – of performance – in him, something that wasn't always there. In his openness, he hides; but there’s a cost.

And Jimmy must have known, must’ve guessed, before he got the backstage pass. Right?

He reaches out, not quite far enough, deliberately; runs fingertips over the smooth, dark blue upholstery beside Ali’s arm, in lieu of touching him. Drops his hand back to the seat before he speaks.

“You off duty now?”

(Joe and Jos haven’t been the only ones to call on their captain, tonight. They just stayed the longest.)

Ali huffs a laugh. “Don’t think I’m ever really off duty.” His eyes open, a little way, and he turns his head; smiles. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“But you’re not going to answer the door again, now, right?”

Ali opens his mouth, hesitates. “Well…”

“Ali. Come on.”

“Time is it?”

Jimmy glances at his watch, although he doesn’t need to; he’s been keeping track. “Ten hours till the coin toss.”

Ali winces. “Guess not, then.” He scrubs his hands over his face. “Sorry. I really thought we’d have a _bit_ of time.”

_It’s not me who’s got the stress tomorrow_ , Jimmy thinks, but chooses not to say anything; he’s not going to change how Ali does things, and it’s not his place to try, is it? Instead, he shuffles over, closing, at last, the careful gap he’s left between them all evening. (Broady may be off having his operation, but Jimmy’s learned his lesson; even in Broady’s absence, he’s not taking any chances in front of their teammates, in case someone else gets suspicious.)

Ali takes a deep breath, and leans towards him. Jimmy lays an arm across Ali’s broad shoulders, and feels the other man sink into him: head on his chest, hand on his belly. Jimmy lets this go on for a few minutes, trying not to think about Joe’s animation, this evening: his spark, his easy warmth, the way the energy of a room just seems to concentrate around his golden-boy head.

_He’s not a threat_ , Ali said, a week ago, and, well. Jimmy never said he _was_ , did he? Let the record show that he said nothing of the sort.

And Joe’s not here _now_ , anyway. There’s only one guy that Ali’s—

(a soft snore drifts up from somewhere under Jimmy’s chin)

…There’s only one guy that Ali’s just fallen asleep on.

As Joe himself would say, _Brilliant_.

Jimmy leans in, thinks about kissing the top of Ali’s head; resists the urge, giving him a shake, instead. “Come on,” he says, making his voice brisk, teasing, as the other man stirs. “Time for _your_ beauty sleep.”

A grunt. A clumsy finger poking into Jimmy’s side. “Oi.”

Ali sways, a little, when he’s on his feet. Jimmy hovers close by, ready to catch him, if need be. Tired Ali is not unlike drunk Ali, in so many ways; doesn't know when to stop.

Jimmy clears his throat. “Want me to stay?”

Ali half smiles, shrugs, looks away. “Depends. How early d’you reckon you can wake up?”

Jimmy pictures a warm, sleepily suggestible Ali. “I’ll do my best.”

(This has become their script, more or less, in the week since the end of the Test series. An unspoken consensus: as close to don’t-ask-don’t-tell as they can manage.)

Ali snorts. “So you might be vaguely alert by the time I get back from the gym, then.”

Okay, yes, so sleepily suggestible Ali thus far exists primarily in Jimmy’s imagination, usually when he opens his eyes about three hours too late to a bed gone cold. But hope springs eternal.

“Brat.” Jimmy steps in, draws Ali’s face round for a lazy kiss. “You could always wake me up.”

“ _Right_.” Ali’s arms settle snugly around him; up close, the whites of his eyes are bloodshot. “And discover whole new heights of grumpiness.”

Jimmy slips a hand down to Ali’s arse. “Depends _how_ you wake me up.”

Ali shifts, so his thigh’s pressing into Jimmy’s groin. “I’ll bear that in mind.”

Jimmy closes his eyes, enjoying the sensation but steeling himself to put a stop to it; _let him go to sleep_ , he tells himself.

It’s Ali, though, who moves away first. “When it isn’t a match day.”

Jimmy pouts. “Boring.”

“New rules, remember.”

“Boring rules.”

“ _Your_ boring rules.”

Jimmy opens his mouth to protest; knows he’s trapped. “ _Rules_ is… such a _strong_ word…”

ODIs mean an earlier start, more overs, fewer breaks; more intense than a Test day, if less sustained. It seemed sensible, earlier this week, sensible and better for Ali, to suggest that they keep their hands (mostly) to themselves on match day mornings. Jimmy didn't really imagine it’d backfire like this.

Ali smirks. “Too late,” he says. Jimmy groans, and Ali pats his arse. “Guess you’ll just have to have… _patience_.”

Ali dodges Jimmy’s attempted grab surprisingly effectively for a guy who’s half-asleep on his feet, and heads for the bathroom with a grin.

“I hate you.” Jimmy grits his teeth; he knows he fully deserves the teasing. “And me, frankly. Reckon I'll go back in time and punch myself in the face.”

“Not if it spoils your looks,” Ali calls, from the bathroom, the sound of his voice turned hollow by the tiles. “And it’s a smart idea, anyway. Conserve your energy for the middle. After all, you’ve not got Broady to hide behind, this series.”

For want of a decent comeback, Jimmy sticks out his tongue, even though Ali can’t see. “ _Fine_. I’m going to get some clothes for the morning.” He stalks his way to the door, collecting Ali’s keycard on his way past the TV. Doesn’t even need to look down for it; knows where it’ll be. (This, too, has become customary.)

“Oh, hey,” says Ali, stopping Jimmy in his tracks. He glances back to see Ali half-in, half-out of the bathroom; the light’s bright around him, showing up the contours of his arms, and the heaviness under his eyes. He’s holding a toothbrush – stripy, bright green – and his smile isn’t mocking, anymore, but something warmer. “Phone charger.”

“Good call.” For once, Jimmy’s not waking up to a dead phone. “Cheers.”

“Don’t know why you don’t just keep a spare one with me.” Ali gestures, vaguely, with his toothbrush. “You’ve got about four, anyway, right?”

Jimmy huffs a laugh as he reaches for the door handle. When he walks back to his room, in a moment, he’ll curse that bright green plastic stick, waving around in his eyeline, for what he says next: “Is this the equivalent of leaving my toothbrush?”

“Maybe so.” Ali slaps a hand lightly against the frame of the bathroom door. “Modern relationships, eh?”

Jimmy freezes; doesn’t mean to. He feels his scalp prickle; sees the colour drain from Ali’s face.

“Not that… You know. I’m not saying this is—”

“I know. It’s fine.” Jimmy interrupts, sharply, wanting nothing more than to stop this conversation in its tracks. The other man subsides. Jimmy swallows, gaze fixed on the wall, off to his right; anything rather than see Ali’s face, right now. Time to make a quick exit. “I’ll, uh… I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Back in his own room, Jimmy dawdles, pottering aimlessly between bathroom and wardrobe while his mind shies away from the obvious thing. He brushes his teeth (with a brief pause for further cursing of fucking _toothbrushes_ ). Packs his kitbag for the morning. Repacks it. Picks out a spare phone charger, winds the trailing lead around it, lets it spring undone; rewinds it. Loses count of how many times he does this.

Eventually, there’s no alternative but to make a decision. Is he going back?

His instinct is to stay here, in his own room, like he always used to; to tell himself that Ali’s tired, anyway, needs a bed to himself and space, in the morning, to focus on his job. _Instinct_ is the operative word: in the heat of the moment, back there, what Jimmy felt was cornered, and that hasn’t gone away. He’s been clear all along, crystal clear: they’re keeping this simple. It isn’t a relationship. Can’t be. They’re both married. End of story. Distance will underline that, has to.

And yet. At the same time, there’s a keycard in his pocket, his _fucking_ phone is still sitting next to Ali’s bed, and there’s guilt (and something else) when he thinks of Ali beating himself up over this (which he will be, because that’s what he’s like). It was a mistake, Jimmy’s sure of that. Ali was so obviously flustered, took it back so quickly, there’s no doubt he didn’t _mean_ to say it. So that’s okay, isn’t it? It’s fine.

But they both know what _fine_ means, and maybe the fact that the word slipped out at all means Ali’s been thinking it.

(He has no _business_ thinking it, how _could_ he, Jimmy’s been _clear_ —)

Jimmy growls his frustration, kicks at the bed that he knows, deep down, he doesn’t want to sleep in. He could go round in circles like this all night, he could come up with a hundred reasons to stay here, but the fact is he still took the key when he could have left it, and there’s still a pressure in his chest at the thought of the man back there, waiting for him.

Jimmy makes himself stop; stands with his hands on his hips, letting his breathing slow. Going back, he tells himself, wouldn’t mean anything. Simply that he doesn’t want to cause Ali any more stress on the eve of a match. That’s all it is. He’ll tell Ali that, Jimmy decides, as he tears the starched sheets of his own bed out from their ordered folds, trying in thirty feverish seconds to make it look like he’s spent a night in them (he’s fooling no-one). He’ll tell Ali that it’s fine, he’s fine, then they can both go to sleep and never talk about this again.

Jimmy’s heart is thumping as he tiptoes back up the corridor, clutching a bundle of tomorrow’s clothes with a charger wrapped up inside them, like it isn’t really there if no-one can see it. He makes so many failed attempts with the keycard that he’s starting to think he’s at the wrong door when the little light finally turns green.

Inside, the only light left on is the lamp on the empty side of the bed. (But there _is_ an empty side. The man who normally occupies the middle has left a space for him, hoping, and _fuck it_ Jimmy isn’t thinking about that.)

Ali’s lying on his side, facing away. Asleep, or pretending to be.

Jimmy doesn’t test which it is. Instead, he creeps to the bed, turns out the light; dumps tomorrow’s clothes, strips out of today’s. Plugs in his phone, which glows, briefly, at the connection, like the treacherous piece of shit wants to draw attention to him. Big guilty spotlight on the man sloping back to the scene of his crime (his _sin_ ) when he knows full fucking well he shouldn’t.

(That, or the phone’s just relieved it isn’t going to die of neglect, tonight.)

He’s doing this for Ali, he tells himself, as he slides under the covers. Last thing his captain needs is to be worrying he’s pissed Jimmy off. That’s why he’s back here. So Ali will know, in the morning, that all is forgiven; so they can play the match, pretend this never happened, and everything can go back to normal.


	2. Chapter 2

If Alastair were being honest – and if there were anyone there to ask the question – he’d have to admit to some relief that Jimmy’s still asleep when he gets up.

It’s nothing, this relief, compared to what he felt when he woke up to find that the other man was there at all. It’s nothing compared to the way his throat tightened, and something like bubbles fizzed in his belly, when the disorientation of sleep wore off and his brain finally categorised the half-heard sound behind him as breathing (someone else’s); when the warm touch at his back registered as more than just the embrace of his sheets.

There was no embrace from Jimmy, as it happened; just an arm, folded up beside the other man, pressing lightly against Alastair’s back. But even this touch was better than nothing – and easier to escape than an embrace, too.

Because, yes: this is the issue. _He’s here_ , is the dominant strain in Alastair’s thoughts, as he slips silently out of bed and into the slight chill of the darkened room; _he came back_. But running under that, he’s got a counterpoint to the melody: a brisk determination to get away, to make it out of the room without having to confront last night’s awkwardness. Jimmy’s back, and that’s enough, isn’t it? He can be grateful for small mercies, for the fact that he hasn’t completely ruined things, and move on.

The direction of these thoughts worries Alastair, as he pulls on clothes – any old clothes – for the gym. The fact that he releases a held breath and _relaxes_ as soon as the door closes behind him: this, too, worries him.

All the way to the hotel gym, he thinks about what Swanny said, more than a month ago; his insistence that Alastair shouldn’t let Jimmy set the tone of this thing between them. And what is this – this sneaking out of his own room with his tail between his legs – if not that?

Where’s his stubbornness? When did he become so ready to bow down before Jimmy’s moods?

(If he’s being honest, Alastair knows the answer. Knows the feelings at the root of it all.)

The _really_ annoying part is that he didn’t even mean to _say_ the word _relationship_. He could take a certain amount of awkwardness if he’d just misjudged things, blurted it out, but it wasn’t even that. It’s not like he’s been hoping – it’s not like he’s even been _thinking_ – that this thing between them will turn out to be anything more than it is: a tour fling for two guys whose families are and always will be their priority. A distraction for them both, that’s all it is.

But _distraction_ , of course, is Jimmy’s word.

As he often does, Alastair uses his frustration to push himself harder in the mercifully deserted gym. Pounds the treadmill until sweat stings his eyes; lifts for longer than he usually would on a match day. Finishes with agonisingly slow pull-ups on the parallel bars, until his arms shake and the burn sets in, deep in his muscles. 

When he finally lets go, his hands sting, enough to make him catch his breath. Thinking ruefully of how it’s going to feel when he pulls on his gloves to bat, later, he inspects palms and fingers for blisters: pressing tender skin with his thumbs, pushing hard against delicate bones. No harm done – he concludes, at last – and the pain has woken him up.

He surveys the empty room, nodding to himself, enjoying the ache in his muscles and the new calm in his mind. However distracting Jimmy may have been, this summer – in both good ways and bad – Alastair’s managed to keep hold of this, at least: the refuge of exertion. Whatever else happens in his life, he has this to fall back on; this that he’s good at. It’s got him through much tougher times than this morning. Nothing clears the mind like exercise. Impossible to keep up a train of thought when your body’s clamouring for attention; impossible to brood.

(A session with Jimmy used to have a similar effect. But lately things have got complicated.)

He’s rubbing himself down with a towel and eyeing up the treadmill again, toying with the idea of a final jog, when his phone – no prizes for guessing why _that_ came downstairs with him – buzzes, an intrusion into the peaceful room. He hesitates, then drapes the towel around his neck, and strides over to it.

The text’s not from Jimmy – and Alastair isn’t sure, suddenly, whether he’s disappointed or relieved about that.

_Guess who’s back xx_

He’s smiling, though, for the first time this morning, as he replies: _swanny you know I have your number saved on my phone right_

The phone’s vibrating again before Alastair can put it down; Swanny always did text as quickly as he talks.

_That’s such a Jimmy response. Can’t believe you’re stomping all over my excitement. you used to be NICE :’(_

Alastair’s pretty sure the other man’s only teasing, but he can’t stand the thought of another miscommunication just now (and a part of him is longing to hear Swanny’s voice), so he taps the call button.

Swanny answers before it even completes one ring.

“Your boyfriend’s rubbing off on you, you know. In more ways than the obvious.”

Alastair’s grinning so hard his face hurts, but he makes his tone as deadpan as he can. “Morning, Swanny.”

“Missed me?”

Alastair’s throat tightens. “Always.”

“Well, the feeling is _more_ than mutual. They tried to get me to stay on in the Caribbean, but I was _adamant_. Absolutely not, I said. You can keep your palm trees, and your crystal-clear waters, and your golden beaches, and your rum… I want to be in _Bristol_ , in the rain, I said.”

Alastair huffs a laugh. “Think it’s stopped now, hasn’t it?” It looked that way, anyway, when he passed a bank of windows on his way to the basement.

“No idea, I’m not there yet. But I’ve been warned that things were decidedly soggy last night.”

“Yeah.” Alastair pushes a hand through sweat-dampened hair. “Wasn’t looking good. I was going to drive over and check the pitch before breakfast, but I got— Wait, where _are_ you, if you’re not here?”

“Motorway services, en route. Specifically, having breakfast in Burger King. The glamorous life of a freelance hack, eh?”

“But you must have had to get up…”

“Stu _pen_ dously early, yeah. The things you do for love. My kids threatened to go on strike, last night, if I left without doing the bedtime stories.”

“On strike from what?” The sound of Swanny launching into an anecdote is soothing, like defrosting with a big mug of tea after a morning out in the fields in winter. Alastair lowers himself down onto a bench; leans back against the wall.

“Bathtime, I think. Or possibly bedtime. They were parading around the house with these plastic cups and saucers, banging them together and yelling some _very_ grammatically dodgy slogans. I don’t know _where_ they’ve got this bolshy streak from, I really don’t. Anyway, Sarah gave me this look – you know the one, Alice must do it too, the now-you- _see_ -what-I’ve-been-dealing-with-while-you-were-away look – and I found myself suggesting I could drive down this morning, instead.”

Alastair chuckles, even as a part of him flinches at the mention of his wife's name. “Must have been quite a look. For you to even contemplate seeing this side of 6am.”

There’s a spluttering noise on the other end of the phone. “ _Hey_ , I resent that remark! Except that it’s almost seven. But I resent the implication you _would_ be making, if you could tell the time properly.”

“Seven? Really?” Alastair glances swiftly around the room; finally spots a small silver-faced clock on the wall to his right. It’s ten to. “Crap. It is. I must’ve…”

“Your boyfriend making you lose track of time?”

“No, he was asleep when I left him, I’m in the gym—”

“Left him… in your _bed_ , by any chance?”

There’s a tone in Swanny’s voice that Alastair knows all too well: sly curiosity, and glee, the sound of him latching on to something you didn’t mean to reveal. He sighs. “…Yes.”

“Well?”

Alastair tries, really hard, to sound unconcerned. “Well what?”

“ _Well_ , is that a one-off, or a regular thing?”

Alastair knows what Jimmy would do, in this situation; tugging absently on the hem of his-t-shirt, he searches for something suitably vague to say. “Uh…”

But Swanny, apparently, is not to be put off. His tone turns wheedling. “Come _on_ , Cooky, I’ve been _starved_ of updates while I’ve been away.”

“It’s, uh…” Alastair clears his throat, and gives in. “Bit early to tell, really. Every… every night since the end of the Test series, though.”

“Well, hallelujah. It’s about time that man got some sense.”

Alastair feels like he should defend Jimmy’s honour, here, since he’s been every bit as reluctant as the other man. But that would involve explaining _why_ , and… “I’m not sure _sense_ is the right word. Under the circumstances.”

A _pfft_ sound from Swanny. “A little of what you fancy does you good. You’ve had enough pressure on you this summer. Far, _far_ too much, if you ask me; you should be having a well-earned rest right about now. But if you _insist_ on playing even more cricket now the Test series is done, the least you deserve is some morning cuddles to go with it.”

Alastair opens his mouth to reply – something indignant about being able to _handle_ the pressure, thank you very much, or else pointing out that Jimmy isn’t the cuddling type – but Swanny’s already filling the pause, rapidly.

“Obviously, if you two crazy kids are getting up to anything _more_ than cuddling, I don’t need to know about it.”

Alastair laughs. “No, it’s all _perfectly_ innocent. I don’t even know what sex _is_.”

Swanny sniffs. “Aw, they grow up so fast,” he says, an exaggerated quiver in his voice. “Anyway, I should probably get back on the road. Give your boyfriend a big sloppy kiss from me.”

“Will do. See you soon, I hope.”

Alastair’s about to hang up when he hears the other man say, “Wait! Wait. One more thing.”

Alastair bites his lip, looks up at the ceiling for a moment. This is exactly what it used to be like, on tour: Swanny halfway out of the door at some ungodly hour of the morning, and _still_ not finished talking. Alastair misses those days with a fierce ache in his chest.

“What’s up?”

“So… That’s the third time I’ve called him your boyfriend, and you haven’t corrected me once. My gossip senses are _tingling_. Things get more serious? What gives?”

Alastair considers saying, _I knew you were only joking_ , but that won’t do, not after last night. He thinks about the word _relationship_ ; about the way Jimmy shut him down, and also the fact that he came back. He thinks about Jimmy more or less admitting, at the end of the last Test, to being jealous of Joe.

Alastair doesn’t know what any of this means. He doesn’t know what to do for the best, but he does know he’s getting tired of letting Jimmy have things all his own way.

“Cooky? You still there?”

Alastair makes a decision.

“Yes. Yeah. Look, Swanny… can we talk? This evening, after the match? I think… I think I need some advice.”

“Sure. Any time, you know that. Want me to come round to your room, later?”

“No, not there. _Your_ hotel, maybe. This needs to be… private.”

“Just because I’m on TMS, it doesn’t mean you need to worry. You know I’d never share anything you said to me off the record, right?”

“I didn’t mean… I _meant_ , without Jimmy knowing.”

There’s a silence. Alastair grits his teeth against the urge to take back everything he’s said; pretend _he_ was joking, fob Swanny off with some half-truth.

“Okay,” says Swanny at last. “Text me after stumps, when you’re free?”

Alastair exhales, at last, already feeling lighter. “I will.”

\--

When Alastair gets back upstairs, Jimmy’s still asleep, or appears to be. There’s not much more of him visible than the top of his head, now, hunkered down in a bundle of white sheets. Alastair smiles, helplessly. Jimmy sleeps with such determination, left to his own devices like this: it’s as if he’s nesting, or as if somehow it can’t be morning if daylight isn’t touching his skin. This is something Alastair has learned over the past week.

He wonders why he didn’t notice it before, on the rare occasions they’ve shared a bed in the past; maybe it’s new, a sign the other man has grown more relaxed in the situation. Or not. Who knows, with Jimmy.

Following up the workout, and the chat, with a good long shower is just what Alastair needs to restore the rest of his equilibrium. And if he ends up spending a certain amount of his time in the shower thinking about Jimmy’s suggestion that he could wake him up, well, it’s enjoyable, even if not very wise. Leaving the bathroom, clean-shaven and with his towel (of necessity) a little looser around his hips than usual, he finally finds Jimmy in the land of the living, lounging in the bed with the sheets most of the way down his chest and one arm tucked behind his head.

Suddenly self-conscious about the reason for the loose towel, Alastair casually drops one end of the smaller towel he’s using to rub his hair dry, letting it dangle down over his body for an extra layer of deniability. Probably fruitless – Jimmy’s bound to pick up on something, and soon – but he’d quite like to spare his own blushes for at least a _few_ minutes.

Match day. Sensible. They’ve agreed to be sensible.

“Morning,” he says, brightly. “Well, what’s left of it, anyway.”

Jimmy rolls his eyes, tilts his head back. “Yeah, yeah. Mock all you want. In any situation, more sleep’s _always_ the right option.”

“Really.” Alastair raises his eyebrows. Makes a point of eyeing up Jimmy’s bare skin; the muscle in that arm under his head. “What about sex versus sleep?”

_Oh, well done_ , he thinks. _Very sensible, there_.

“That’s different, obviously.” Jimmy’s head comes back up. “Why, you offering?”

Alastair tries to school his expression into something that doesn’t give away the fact that he’s been thinking of nothing else for the past fifteen minutes. “What about the new match day rules?”

Jimmy sniffs. “Let’s be rebels.”

Tempting; oh, so tempting. Something about those three words, especially; the way they’re delivered, with such off-hand assurance. Alastair resists, although he can feel his willpower draining away. “You slept through our window of opportunity, for this morning.”

Jimmy makes a face, flopping back down against the bed. “This is a plot to get me on a 5am run tomorrow, isn’t it? I know your game, skip.” He yawns. Alastair suspects this is an act.

Alastair snorts. “Don’t think that’d be much fun for either of us.” He puts down the spare towel, grabs the kettle, takes it to the bathroom.

“Yeah. Think you’ve seen me in grumpy moods before? You ain’t seen _nothing_ …” Jimmy’s exaggerated snarl gives way abruptly to a much happier tone as Alastair returns with a filled kettle. “Mind-reader. I’ll have a brew, if you’re making.” He sits up again, or partway at least, propped up on his elbows. “Oh. And. You missed a call while you were in the shower. Mobile _and_ room phone. Whoever it was, they want dropping from the team, because they woke me up.”

Alastair wanders over to check his mobile. Expecting it to be Swanny with another _one more thing_ ; aware of Jimmy’s gaze on him, and the fact that he hasn’t mentioned speaking to Swanny yet. “Pete,” he says, with some relief, when he sees the screen. “Who else, at this time in the morning?”

The voicemail is to the point: more rain; pitch inspection to come.

Alastair puts the phone back down with a sigh. “Sounds like the ten-thirty start today’s a pipe dream.”

Heading back past the bed to see to the kettle, he finds his way blocked; Jimmy’s shuffled halfway down the bed, and there’s a foot – a very fast-bowler foot, all bandages and a painful-looking half-grown big toenail – sticking out of the covers at the end of the mattress.

“So what you’re saying is… the window’s re-opened.”

(Willpower check: almost gone.) “I’m _saying_ the toss is delayed.”

Another foot joins the first, this one at the back of Alastair’s knees. Alastair regards them both with hands on his hips.

Jimmy looks endearingly pleased with himself as he slides down to the end of the mattress – pushing sheets aside as he goes – and hooks his legs more firmly around Alastair’s. He’s naked, of course, and it’s immediately clear that Alastair isn’t the only one who’s been having distracting thoughts. “Trapped.”

Alastair snorts. “Oh, _no_. What _am_ I going to do?”

Jimmy smirks, slips his arms around Alastair’s waist. “I’ve got a few ideas.”

He leans in; lays a trail of light, lingering kisses across Alastair’s belly, just above where the towel rests. His lips are dry, initially, but he pauses to wet them and suddenly the kisses are soft, punctuated with occasional scuffs from what Alastair knows, firsthand, is four days’ worth of stubble.

Alastair steadies himself with a loose grip on Jimmy’s shoulder, and closes his eyes. Cool hands have settled in the small of his back; he can feel the callus on that palm again, and it occurs to him – quite out of nowhere – that he’d know Jimmy’s touch blindfolded.

Literally, in fact, he knows Jimmy’s touch blindfolded. His face heats at the thought.

Jimmy shifts, and Alastair hears the man’s chuckle at the same time as he feels stubble graze his skin, the sensation somewhere between a scratch and a tickle. He looks down to see Jimmy grinning up at him.

“Guess you’ve got some ideas as well, all flushed like that,” he says, then brings a hand round to brush over the towel against Alastair’s groin. “Mmm. Yep.”

Alastair just barely resists the urge to push forward against Jimmy’s palm. He cradles Jimmy’s smug face in both hands – carefully, since his hands are still sore from the bars in the gym – and bends down to kiss him.

This kiss starts languid, but quickly escalates into something hungrier. The hand on Alastair’s back drops down to his arse, cupping it firmly; the other hooks around the back of his neck, holding him in place, and he grunts encouragement. Jimmy’s tongue slips between his lips and the other man moves his head, pressing in harder. Alastair flinches at the abrasion of Jimmy’s cheek against his tender palm.

Jimmy stops, immediately. “What’s up?”

Alastair shakes his head, but lets his hands drop from Jimmy’s face. “Nothing.” He doesn’t need hassle from Jimmy about his morning routine ( _blah blah overdoing it blah_ ); not today. The other man’s gaze doesn’t waver, so he tries, “You need a shave.”

Jimmy’s eyes narrow, but he scratches his jaw. “True.” A head tilt. “And _you_ need to lose that towel.”

Which is the change of subject Alastair needs; he takes it. He braces himself with a knee against the mattress between Jimmy’s legs, and starts to untuck the end of the towel, but the other man’s hands are already up inside it, taking firm hold of his backside. Alastair’s barely let the towel drop to the floor before Jimmy’s head is down by Alastair’s belly again, lips whispering over the trail of hair down to his groin, teeth dragging lightly over his skin. Alastair catches his breath, digs fingertips into Jimmy’s shoulders, and sort of stifles a moan as he feels moist warmth at the head of his cock: Jimmy’s tongue, playing with the slit. With Jimmy’s hands tight on his arse, there’s no room for Alastair to move as the other man takes him further into his mouth; all he can do is arch his back and push a hand into Jimmy’s hair, as Jimmy’s lips and cheeks tighten around his shaft.

Everything’s throbbing nicely – and Alastair’s just given up trying not to moan – when he realises that Jimmy has loosened his grip and is pulling back from his cock. He makes a noise of lazy protest.

Jimmy’s wiping his mouth. “I should shave.”

Alastair blinks, trying to pull his thoughts back together. “You sh… _Why_?”

“If you were finding the stubble annoying just on your hands, can’t imagine what it’s like between your thighs.”

“No – no, it’s fine, honestly. No need to… you know, stop.”

“Better that than friction burns.” Jimmy’s stroking Alastair’s thigh. “Got a spare razor, or do I need to go back to my room?”

“But it’s _your_ chin, I really don’t want to make you go to the trouble…”

“No trouble, I was going to shave this morning anyway. And if you prefer—”

“ _Jimmy_.” Alastair is wishing, fervently, that he’d never said anything about the stubble. But this is where the path of telling lies leads. The variety of stern school masters in his memory never said anything about this _precise_ situation, obviously, but the principle seems sound. “It might be raining now, but it’s still a match day. In the nicest possible way, I don’t have time to sit around waiting for you to shave. Yeah, I prefer you clean-shaven, but you’re doing me no harm if you aren’t. I promise.”

A pause. “Huh.” Jimmy smiles, and dips his head again.

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s just… Well, you don’t tend to… Usually it’s me with the opinions about, you know, your hair. And your clothes. And your general...” Jimmy waves a hand, palm out, up and down, the gesture taking in Alastair’s whole body. “You know. Anyway.”

Before Alastair can pursue this, Jimmy goes back to work, and everything else drops down Alastair’s list of priorities. The next time Jimmy stops it’s to haul Alastair onto the bed. Alastair’s legs have largely stopped working by this point, so he goes tumbling over Jimmy’s thigh to land with his back against the sheets. Jimmy straddles him on hands and knees, grinning down at him, and Alastair wraps his arms around the other man, pulling him down.

In between kisses, Jimmy murmurs, “So what got you all horny in the shower this morning?”

Alastair considers denying everything, but knows there’s no point. “Thinking about how I could wake you up.”

Jimmy hums against his throat. “Go on.”

Alastair digs his fingers into Jimmy’s back, drags them down towards his arse. “You’ll find out next time I’m awake before you. Which, let’s face it, is probably tomorrow.”

Jimmy looks up, eyebrows raised. “Nah, I think you want to tell me now.”

“Impatient.” Alastair administers a light slap to Jimmy’s arse, mostly because it’s in easy reach.

Jimmy pouts. Alastair responds in the only sensible way (i.e., tickling). The next kiss, after they’ve rolled over a few times and got thoroughly entwined, sputters to a halt because they’re both fighting giggles.

Alastair feels Jimmy sigh against his neck; for a moment, the other man’s arms tighten around him.

“We don’t _have_ to go to the ground, do we? Can’t we just stay here? It’s not like we’re far away, Pete could just text you when there’s a pitch inspection.”

“You remember the part where I’m captain, right?”

“They’re not going to run riot without you to supervise.” Lips light against Alastair’s throat. “They’re a sensible bunch. Well, most of them. Some of them. Mo?”

Alastair snorts and, rather than reply, starts to rock his hips against Jimmy. It doesn’t take long for the other man’s touch to become more purposeful again; doesn’t take long before he’s kissing his way back down Alastair’s chest, and over his belly.

“So the other reason I thought shaving might be wise,” Jimmy says, in between kisses, as he nudges Alastair’s thighs apart, and then pushes them up towards his abdomen, “is this.”

Jimmy’s head is down again, and this time, it turns out, he isn’t going for Alastair’s cock. Alastair feels the other man’s lips brush against his hole, tongue starting to tease at sensitive skin. He arches his back and gasps out his surprise, breath leaving him in a series of rising notes as a tingling heat pools between his legs. No chance to get himself under control, no chance at all. He should know this by now, expect it – he’s not _in_ control, he’s _never_ in control – but somehow he still gets blindsided by the things Jimmy can make him feel.

As it goes on, he shoves his arms out wide, clutching at the sheets, moaning deep in his throat and melting into the mattress. He’s lost all sense of what his legs are doing, has to open his eyes to check; sees his knees pinned back almost against his chest, Jimmy’s hands holding them firmly in place. He tenses the muscles of his thighs, pushes back against Jimmy’s grip, gets renewed pressure in return; likes, as ever, the feeling of constriction, of movement checked in a way that amplifies the rest of it. Wants to rock his hips, wants to thrust, wants to writhe – and, over and over again, he finds that he _can’t_. Jimmy’s tongue and lips are hot against his skin, licking and sucking and invading and he’s _helpless_ , he’s muttering now, _yes fuck Jimmy…_ He drags a pillow close, so he can bite down on it, not trusting himself to keep quiet. Then, suddenly, the wet heat is back around his cock and he does thrust now, finds the strength from somewhere to strain up into Jimmy’s mouth, pure heedless instinct taking over as he curses up a muffled storm into the pillow.

Somewhat later, Alastair is drifting, eyes closed, everything below his belly button feeling a bit like jelly. Hoping that he just _thought_ , rather than actually said, _If you fucking stop now you’re never bowling another ball in Test cricket_. Because that would be embarrassing.

The mattress dips, to his left. Jimmy’s voice, low and amused, somewhere near his ear.

“You’ve got a lot more sweary since the start of the summer.”

Alastair cringes. Realises he’s still holding onto the pillow. Pulls it over his burning face. “Sorry.”

“Nah, I like it.” A hand slides across Alastair’s chest, hooks around his waist. “Means I’m doing something right.”

“You…” Alastair’s voice cracks. He coughs. “Yes. You could say that.”

“I mean, if we’d had more time I probably would’ve drawn it out a bit longer. Teach you a lesson and all that.” Lips at Alastair’s shoulder. “But we weren’t playing that game this morning.”

Jimmy shifts nearer; Alastair feels the other man’s cock pressing against his thigh. He puts the pillow to one side, and opens his eyes. Jimmy’s got his head propped on an elbow, and he’s smiling a smile Alastair can’t quite read. This close, Alastair can see the traces of the crow’s feet at his eyes, the flecks of silver in his hair. He reaches over, finds the familiar shape of Jimmy’s shaft.

“Think I owe you something pretty special in return.”

Jimmy shrugs. “In a minute. Get your breath back first.”

So Alastair reaches up, instead, to draw fingertips along the other man’s jaw, over bristly stubble grown just long enough that it’s starting to soften. Jimmy turns his head, with evident care – Alastair hates himself, a little bit, for the lie he told earlier, but it’s too late, now, isn’t it? – and plants a soft kiss on Alastair’s palm.

Alastair’s mind is whirling as Jimmy leans down, so it takes him a moment to realise that the other man tastes of the harsh, chemical mint of his mouthwash.

Jimmy has put a dent in that small plastic bottle, this week. Alastair’s been half-tempted to make some remark about it. _Thank goodness there’s no need to bring your toothbrush, eh? Someone might think you actually_ want _to stay the night, otherwise._ After last night’s exchange, he’s glad he resisted the passive-aggressive urge. But something else occurs to him now.

“Minty,” he says, when they’re done. Strokes the nape of Jimmy’s neck as he searches for words. “Is that… because of what you…? Is it, you know… kind of… horrible?”

He was worried, during their first foray into this territory – brief, exploratory, by comparison – in the showers at Old Trafford. Giving a blowjob, he can completely understand; but this is harder to get his head round. How Jimmy could _want_ to do it.

Jimmy smiles. “No. Your showering’s… thorough.” He shrugs, looks down. “I just… thought you might not want to kiss me. Afterwards.”

Alastair’s relieved to hear the first part. It’s become an automatic part of his routine: making sure he’s prepared in case sex is on the cards. (It generally is, to be fair.) But the latter squeezes something inside him, making it hard to breathe.

And this, surely, is something he can say – something he _can_ be honest about – without doing any damage. Isn’t it?

He pulls Jimmy close again, kisses him; then tilts his face, eyes closed, holding his forehead to Jimmy’s.

“I’ll always be grateful,” he says, putting it into a murmur because he doesn’t trust his voice not to do something silly, “that I did all of... _this_ , with someone who... someone who’s so patient with me.”

(He almost said something other than _patient_. But he’s not a _complete_ idiot. And patience is a virtue Jimmy’s keen on, so.)

Jimmy swallows. Does it again. “Course I am,” he says at last, gruffly. “Worth every— Worth it. To get it right.”

Then Alastair’s being kissed again, at length, and he suspects it’s to stop him saying anything else, but that’s fine.

And eventually Jimmy clears his throat and says, in a much lighter tone, “So. You were saying something about—”

It’s quite satisfying, Alastair decides, that he can cut Jimmy off mid-sentence, just by grabbing hold of the man’s cock. Not a skill he imagined cultivating, at the start of the summer, but life is full of surprises.


	3. Chapter 3

Certain things don’t change. Regardless of whether you’re playing a Test match or an ODI, rain delays – especially the type with no end in sight – are still a very special kind of boredom.

It’s times like this that Jimmy misses Bres. The man might be a cheeky sod, prone to rubbish ‘jokes’ like buying Jimmy a Yorkshire shirt for his birthday (not funny, not even slightly), but his shoulders are nice and comfy, perfect for leaning against when you’re having a sneaky dressing room doze.

At Jimmy’s suggestion, Ali has brought his dartboard to the ground with him, in anticipation of a lengthy delay. As the morning wears on, they manage to rope in several people to play with them, if only out of sheer lack of other options. As the clock ticks past one-fifteen and the latest pitch inspection gets going outside, they’re deep into what must be at least the tenth game, this time with CJ and Mo boosting the numbers. (In their own personal head-to-head, Ali is in the lead, overall, six games to three.) Ali and Mo are running away with it, until CJ lands (what turns out to be) his last three darts perfectly, to set up an improbable – but thoroughly deserved, obviously – victory for him and Jimmy.

The subsequent high five from CJ is quite something. (Enthusiastic. Emphatic. Other words beginning with ‘e’. Like excruciating.) Jimmy has to grit his teeth to keep from wincing.

Mo, meanwhile, is grinning broadly. “Now _that_ was some death bowling.”

He claps CJ on the back, and the two of them stroll off, arm-in-arm. The rather dog-eared tennis ball that’s being flung back and forth across the dressing room briefly comes to rest in Woakesy’s hands, then goes sailing through the air again once the pair have passed.

“Well played.”

Jimmy shrugs, looking away from the increasingly frenetic tennis ball contest, at the man who’s just come up behind him. Ali appears absorbed in the game, brow furrowed in concentration. Jimmy stuffs his hands in his pockets. “Another?”

Ali huffs a laugh. “Looked outside, lately? Inspection’s just a formality. We’re done for the day.”

A sudden cry from elsewhere in the room: “ _Look out_!”

Jimmy finds himself yanked sharply to the left, out of the way (he realises, belatedly) of the tennis ball’s heat-seeking path for his head. As he rights himself, there’s a chorus of _sorry_ s from the rest of the lads. Ali lets go of Jimmy’s elbow in a way that could also be described as _belatedly_ , and takes a side-step, restoring the distance between them.

“Lucky for you,” Jimmy says, watching the ball, now. “I’m on a winning streak, I would’ve beaten you.”

Ali scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

“I am! Upswing in my form. We play some more at the hotel, you’ll see.”

The tennis ball smacks into a locker, ricochets, narrowly misses a laptop.

Ali grunts. “I think I’m going to have a quiet word with Pete. Get the mobiles released from captivity, before we lose a window—”

The tennis ball takes an unfortunate deflection, and Ravi, who’s dozing in a corner, wears it right in the belly. Anyone else would be cursing – probably at some length – but the most laid-back man in cricket just blinks, tosses the ball back, pulls his cap down over his eyes, and settles back against the wall.

“—Or a teammate.”

Ali’s mission of mercy is successful. Soon – after the buzz dies down from a dozen phones getting half a day’s worth of messages all at once – an intent hush falls over the dressing room.

Ali’s phone, unusually, is one of the more active ones. The other man – now sitting next to Ravi, on the far side of the room – is texting away, with a huge smile on his face and occasional stifled laughter.

For quite a while (it must be at _least_ two minutes), Jimmy resists the temptation to glance over at Joe. When he does, it doesn’t help; Joe isn’t texting, he’s waving his phone around in front of Stokesy’s face like he thinks it’s a sword. (No, wait, Jimmy recognises the sounds the phone’s making. Lightsaber. Bloody Swanny, it’s _his_ fault Jimmy knows that.)

There was a time – Jimmy remembers that there was definitely a time – when he didn’t send Ali flirty texts, because the balance of risk against reward just wasn’t worth it. Clearly that time has passed, though, because look, here are his fingers, typing: _If you want to get rid of some pent-up energy once the umps have called it, there’s a good chance I’ll be free_.

He watches Ali fight a grin, lose; bite his lip. In the time it takes Ali to clear his throat, and start typing, Jimmy sends another quick message: _Quite like to bite that lip myself right now_.

Ali looks away from his screen, a flush blooming in his cheeks. Jimmy can see the other man’s chest rising and falling, even across the room.

_do you mind im trying to be mature and responsible in front of the guys_

Jimmy grins, warming to this now. He slouches in his seat, and replies, _How little they know_

_yeah. of the two of us only one is mature. im still in the first blush of YOUTH old man_

Jimmy eyes the man across the room. _Certainly blushing, anyway_ , he sends, then adds, because how could he not, _ps: brat_

After that, Ali’s head is down for a while, his fingers moving hesitantly across his screen; Jimmy waits his turn.

_what was it you said this morning about me swearing. sign im doing sth right? thats how I feel about being called brat_

When Jimmy looks up, after reading that, Ali’s waiting for him: eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips. Jimmy mimes a big, put-upon sigh, and sends back, _Think I’ve gone wrong somewhere_.

_maybe i need to stay behind for some extra coaching ;)_

The universe being crushingly unjust, Jimmy doesn’t have time to dwell on this idea, because the umpires arrive to interrupt the conversation with confirmation that the match is abandoned. As everyone scrambles to pack up and make the most of their unexpected afternoon off, Jimmy dawdles until he gets chance to have a quiet word in Ali’s ear.

“So, this extra coaching, then…”

Ali grimaces. “I can’t,” he says, as he slides one of his bats carefully back into his kitbag. “I’ve got things to do. You know, usual duties.”

Jimmy waits until Pete and Mo, deep in conversation, have passed them; then he tuts. “You’re such a _tease_.”

Ali flashes him the sort of look he probably should avoid in public. “Takes one to know one.”

Jimmy grins. “Fair point. Later, then.”

“Yeah.” Ali turns back to his kitbag. “Maybe… maybe dinner? Just us?”

“Sure, yeah. Just text me.” Jimmy turns to go, but Ali calls him back.

“Would you mind…” –Ali digs in his kitbag for a moment; produces his hotel keycard— “…dropping the dartboard back in my room? Don’t worry about getting the key back to me, I’ll pick up another from reception when I get back.”

Jimmy makes a crack about overhauling Ali’s wardrobe while he’s out. It gets him a batting glove to the stomach, so he doubles over in pretend pain. The same glove comes back and cuffs him on the back of his head.

There’s a burst of laughter from somewhere behind them.

“Cooky! Stop _abusing_ our oldest— ah, I mean, _best_ bowler.” Morgs is standing about six feet away, with one hand on his hip; his voice is scandalised, but his expression is amused. “Let me abuse him on Fifa instead.”

Jimmy gives Ali a last look, then turns to Morgs. “Oh, you _wish_ …”

They bicker their way down the stairs, at least until they catch up with Alex Hales, at which point they gang up on him. As Morgs observes, when your teammate’s ODI debut has been washed out, it’s important to do everything you can to take his mind off it.

Jimmy smiles his way back to the hotel, where he hides a few key items of Ali’s clothes, just to see whether the other man notices.

\--

Watching Hales get slaughtered at Fifa, repeatedly, only has so much appeal; after an hour or so, Jimmy slopes off, and has a brew in the less raucous surroundings of Woakesy’s room. Somewhat later, he heads downstairs to stretch his legs – knocking on Ali’s door on the way (no answer) – but the weather outside is still pretty inhospitable. He retreats back inside, but not before noticing Ali’s car in the carpark.

The first inkling Jimmy gets that something’s up is when he spots the small gaggle of journalists in the bar. That’s not in itself strange – they don’t often drink in the team hotel, though it’s not unknown – but when they stir purposefully as he passes, and one of them shouts his name, experience makes Jimmy wave a brisk greeting and veer towards the lifts without breaking stride. On a day without a ball bowled, the only questions they could have are about off-the-field stuff, and Jimmy has no interest in whatever it is Kev or Shane Warne or whoever has said now.

Upstairs again, he pops his head in all the rooms where the guys tend to congregate – Joe’s, Hales’, CJ’s – but there’s no sign of Ali (not that Jimmy’s looking for him, specifically, he just notices this), and still no answer at his door, either.

Back in his own room, twenty minutes into flicking stations on TV, it’s his phone that breaks the news. Or, more precisely, a text from Broady.

_Hi bud. If you aren’t already with Cooky, might be a good time to find him. Swanny’s been running his mouth on TMS._

The misgivings that have been lurking since Jimmy was downstairs start to mutter a little more loudly in his ear. The BBC radio app is frustratingly slow to load – installing updates, apparently – and eventually his patience runs out. He gets his laptop instead, goes to the website, brings up the final half an hour of the programme. The sound of Swanny’s voice fills the empty room: insistent, articulate, cocksure; like it always is.

Normally, it’s one of the things Jimmy likes best about Swanny.

Normally, he and Jimmy are on the same side.

Today, Swanny – Ali’s rock, his fucking cheerleader in the commentary box – says this:

“I don’t think we’ve got a cat in hell’s chance of winning this World Cup.”

And this:

“I love Cooky dearly. But I don't think he should be bothering playing one-day cricket anymore.”

Jimmy’s stomach lurches. He makes himself keep listening, but he can guess what’s coming and it’s like watching a collision in slow motion.

“He's not the guy who should be opening the batting in one-day cricket for England. Vince should be doing it with Hales in a young vibrant team with Eoin Morgan as captain.”

( _With Eoin Morgan as captain_. The words buzz in Jimmy’s brain, not making sense. How could Swanny, of all people, be saying this?)

There’s more, every confident statement a swingeing cut. Jimmy’s own name goes unmentioned, though he’s neither _young_ nor _vibrant_ , but it’s no consolation: this is one of his best friends – teammate turned pundit, and emphatically so – tearing his _other_ best friend down, live on air.

It _was_ live on air. Well over an hour ago, now. Ali must have heard this. _Shit_. Where _is_ he?

Half a minute later, Jimmy’s striding down the corridor. Still no response to his knock; no answer when he phones, either. He tries again, and this time thinks he hears something from inside the room; lowers his phone, presses his ear to the door. The angry buzz of a mobile set to vibrate.

Ali’s keycard is burning a hole in Jimmy’s pocket. He agonises, turning away from the door and then back again. This wasn’t why the man gave him the card; and if Ali isn’t answering the door, he probably doesn’t want to be bothered. (Jimmy knows all about _that_ feeling.)

And yet.

He slips the card into the slot, pushes the door open, just a fraction. “Ali?”

Nothing. Absolutely sod all. Ali’s phone’s on the counter by the door, his kitbag has been dumped a couple of feet from it, but the room’s empty.

Jimmy’s still hovering in the doorway, at a loss, when Ali’s phone starts up again. Jimmy glances at the screen before he can stop himself, spots Swanny’s name, and grits his teeth. He barges inside, kicks the door shut, and with a couple of quick, sharp swipes of his thumb, he’s calling Swanny on his own phone.

The voice that answers is cheery; oblivious, even. Jimmy wants to snarl.

“Good afternoon, Mr Anderson, what can I do—”

“What the _fuck_ , Swanny?”

“I… Nice to speak to you, too, dear.”

“What did you say all that stuff on the radio for?”

“Well, for one thing, talking on the radio is _kind_ of my job, now. You may have heard—”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.” Jimmy snatches a breath, fights to keep his voice level. “It’s pretty bloody clear where your loyalties lie.”

“Jimmy, come _on_ —”

“Don’t you think he’s got enough to deal with? Without you joining the ranks of the… the professional fucking whingers?”

A hollow laugh. “You’re starting to sound like Andy Flower. Look, I’m paid to give my opinions. Even when they’re ones you disapprove of.”

“That’s not—” There’s a knock at the door. Jimmy ignores it, but moves further into the room and lowers his voice. “What I _disapprove_ of is you sitting up on high, taking potshots at us over the fucking airwaves. Knowing you don’t have to walk into a room with us any time soon and say it to our faces.”

A pause. When Swanny next speaks, there’s something wounded in his tone. (Jimmy tries to ignore that; it’s surprisingly easy to do, when he thinks about how wounded Ali is probably feeling just now.)

“Just because I’m not in the dressing room anymore – and you know _full_ well how much that bothers me, but thanks for reminding me again – it doesn’t mean I’m not entitled to an _opinion_. An _informed_ opinion, let’s be—”

“Vaughan, Swanny. You were agreeing with _Vaughan_.” Jimmy’s least favourite captain, something Swanny is well aware of. "The man who never _saw_ an England side he didn’t think could be improved an extra half dozen Yorkies.”

“I know, but look: even a stopped clock, Jim. Even Michael Vaughan can occasionally have a point.”

Across the room, Ali’s phone starts to buzz again. Jimmy squelches the urge to throw the thing at the wall; _leave him the fuck alone_ , he thinks.

“ _What_ point? Cooky’s just about got back on his feet, so quick, let’s kick him down again?”

“The _point_ that this – this whole poisoned sodding chalice of an ODI captaincy in the run-up to a World Cup – is the _last_ thing Cooky needs. You know I’m right. He should quit while he’s ahead, he should go back to the farm, he should take the autumn and winter off to properly recover from all the KP bollocks. He shouldn’t be facing the media every time England take another white-ball pasting, and he shouldn’t—”

“ _No_.” Jimmy realises he’s been shaking his head, as if somehow that’s going to stem the tide of Swanny’s words. “He’s captain, and he’s going to stay captain. You know as _well_ as I do that he’s never going to quit. He’ll battle on through, whatever it takes. Because he’s the most dedicated and… and _stubborn_ man I’ve ever met. You should be supporting him, not telling the world you think he’s odds-on to fail. You know, like friends do.” His heart's racing when he stops.

“Maybe I’ve got his best interests at heart.” Swanny’s voice has gone sharper. “Maybe you’re defending him so staunchly because you don’t like the idea of sleeping alone on tour anymore.”

Anger drives a spike into Jimmy’s gut. Without another word, he hangs up.

A few thumping heartbeats later, Jimmy’s thought of six more things he wishes he’d said. (Chief among them: _If you’re so fucking concerned about him, why didn’t you just call him, rather than stabbing him in the back?_ ) In a way, this feeling is typical – conversations with Swanny generally involve all sorts of missed opportunities for the perfect comeback – but usually Jimmy’s ruing the lost chance of a better punchline, not wishing he could’ve landed a few more punches.

But other thoughts are jostling for attention now, like what if Ali thinks Jimmy’s fed all this to Swanny – that this is Kev and Piers Morgan all over again?

Time to find his captain. When Jimmy opens the door, there’s the sound of running feet and an exclaimed “Cooky!”, followed a moment later by Joe skidding into view. The lad bounces on his toes, trying to see past Jimmy. “Is he…?”

Jimmy shakes his head, sliding the keycard into his back pocket, out of sight. He lets the door close behind him. “Nope.”

Joe’s face falls. “He’s not answering his phone, either.”

“He’s not got his phone.” Jimmy looks down at his feet, away from the questions and the worry in Joe’s eyes.

“ _Shit_. I thought, when I saw what Swanny said—”

Jimmy holds up a hand. “Voice down.”

Stage whisper: “Sorry. Have you seen him?”

“No.” Jimmy hesitates, then offers, “Saw his car, though.”

(Half an hour ago. Ali could be anywhere by now.)

“If he’s not up here… I know where I’d look next.”

It takes just a moment for the penny to drop. “Yeah.” Jimmy rubs his forehead, cursing himself; can’t believe he didn’t think of the gym sooner. “Yeah. Course.”

“I’ll stay up here, keep the louder mouths off twitter, and that.”

“Thanks.” Jimmy turns to go; feels a light touch on his arm. Looks up, reluctantly, to meet the lad’s earnest, blue-eyed gaze.

“He’ll be right,” Joe says, quietly. “It’ll all be right.”

Jimmy just nods.

\--

In the end, Jimmy will lose track of how long he waits.

As soon as he walks in the gym, though, he knows there’s no point doing anything else. Ali has the place to himself – or had, until Jimmy arrived – and if he notices Jimmy come in, he doesn’t acknowledge him. The other man’s on the treadmill, and running hard: head down, shirt stuck to his back with sweat. The face half-reflected in the mirrored wall is flushed scarlet, and there’s a blankness in the dark eyes that warns Jimmy off intervening.

There’s nothing Jimmy can do, so he waits – straddling a bench press near the doorway, forearms braced against his thighs, hands clenched tight together into a single fist – and watches as Ali goes from treadmill to parallel bars and back again. Watches as Ali’s arms start to tremble, as his chest starts to heave, as his legs shake. Watches as Ali drives himself harder, breath a harsh sawing in his throat, until it’s hard to tell whether this is sheer bloody-minded determination, or something closer to self-destruction. Jimmy watches it all, and keeps his expression as smooth and still as he can, and doesn’t make a sound until right at the end, when Ali staggers off the treadmill and almost collapses.

That’s when Jimmy’s heart stutters, when he gasps, when he darts forward – but still he waits, checks himself and _forces_ himself to wait, while Ali dry-retches, bent almost double over a barbell perched above another bench. Only when the other man pushes himself upright, finally, can Jimmy be useful: without a word, he slings Ali’s right arm around his neck, fastens one of his own arms tight about the man’s waist.

“I can walk,” Ali mutters.

“I know,” says Jimmy, “but I’ve got you.” He expects this to be the winning argument.

But Ali’s shaking his head, pulling away. “I can _walk_ ,” he says again; insistent, even brusque.

Jimmy’s so surprised that he lets go, and loses several paces on the other man; has to hurry to catch up. He makes no third attempt to help, but shadows Ali to the lifts, to the upstairs corridor, to his room, where the other man relents long enough to let Jimmy run a bath. That’s where Jimmy leaves him, a little while later: wreathed in steam, soaking in water as hot as he can bear, with his face turned towards the tiled wall and the back of one hand pressed against his mouth.

Afterwards, Jimmy will hold his tongue, and concentrate on the other man’s hands, smoothing cream into palms rubbed almost raw. They’ll not say a word about Swanny, not then or later – but in two days’ time they’ll lose the ODI at Cardiff, Jimmy will take no wickets, and Ali will label Swanny a _so-called friend_ in the press conference.

Jimmy will still tell himself that he’s right, and Swanny’s wrong, but he will begin – just a little – to doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Like I said in a comment on the previous chapter, Swanny is a disruptive force! I remember listening with my mouth hanging open as he said all the stuff on TMS. I've been looking forward to ficcing this day basically ever since...
> 
> Lots of supplementary material for this chapter:
> 
> 1) Reports on Swanny's comments on the 25th, from [the BBC](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/cricket/28926219) and, misspelling Cooky's name, [the _Independent_](http://www.independent.co.uk/sport/cricket/alistair-cook-should-quit-as-one-day-captain-says-graeme-swann-9690210.html). As I noted at the time, the BBC got into the fic spirit by using [this dramatically-lit photo](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/95987255032/when-youre-viewing-the-world-through-ship) to trail the story.
> 
> 2) Full details of the second ODI are [here](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/engine/match/667723.html). Video of Cook's comments ("I don't think it's that helpful, especially from a so-called friend", etc.) in the press conference is [here](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/content/video_audio/774891.html), and reports of his remarks include [this one at the BBC](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/cricket/28960313) and [this at the _Mirror_](http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/cricket/england-vs-india-alastair-cook-4119661). Perhaps predictably, Swanny only [doubled down on his remarks](http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/cricket/28978806), saying - amongst many, many other things - "We're happy to tootle along in a two-litre diesel in a Formula 1 race."
> 
> 3) I've been economical with the truth in one respect: I realised after I'd drafted this that Ravi Bopara wasn't actually in the squad for this ODI series. But since leaving him out of the team was a stupid-ass decision, I elected to ignore it (to paraphrase Nick Fury in the first _Avengers_ film), and also I was fond of the paragraph I wrote about him, so it stayed in.
> 
> 4) [Here is Jimmy's suitably GrumpyCat response to Tim Bresnan's present of a Yorkshire shirt](http://kutubiyya.tumblr.com/post/98553829742/bibliolicious-tyretracks-andbrokenhearts).
> 
> 5) Courtesy of pontingmasterclass on tumblr, [here's a gifset of Chris Jordan high-fiving people](http://bibliolicious.tumblr.com/post/137164823079/pontingmasterclass-chris-jordans-looks-a-scary). Ow.
> 
> I will be back with another part in this series at the end of June, all being well.

**Author's Note:**

> Full details of the England v India 2014 ODI series - including scorecards, photos, and interviews - are [here](http://www.espncricinfo.com/england-v-india-2014/engine/series/667699.html).


End file.
